


Afternoon Programs

by Project0506



Series: Soft Wars [141]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Humor, Star Wars AU - Soft Wars, Younglings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29470185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Project0506/pseuds/Project0506
Summary: Fox discovered some unexpected guests in his office.  Bral Squad attempts to explain.
Series: Soft Wars [141]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1683775
Comments: 16
Kudos: 292





	Afternoon Programs

**Author's Note:**

> Rated, as usual, for Fox's pottymouth

“The first one of you fuckers to say ‘Intervention’ is getting thrown out the window.”

Fox sips his drink (grande quad nutmilk one pump sugar-free mocha, no whip extra cinnamon; the kid at the third floor cafe is _determined_ to find something Fox likes better than caff, black. This is not that thing.) and stares down the wall of vodhood blocking his karking way. Three CCs stare back in varying degrees of resolve. Good for them, finally digging their spines out of their tube goo. Shit timing, but good for them anyway.

They’re between him and a desk Fox left groaning under a stack of holopads a half-vod tall and about as deep. It’s been a half a shift; if the pile hasn’t doubled then senate must have taken a sudden unannounced recess. Fox is never that lucky.

“Contemplating throwing one of you anyway,” he muses. “Not that I mind you keeping me from my work.” He does. Courier’s due within the hour and is guaranteed to be bringing more. If Fox hasn’t cleared a space he’ll have to start storing piles on Blockade’s desk.

That does not bear contemplating.

“See gentlefucks, I got a whole four hours of sleep so I’m feeling generous. I’ll let you pick which one of you I maim first.” Thire it seems has volunteered to be the victim today. To be fair, his forward step is very helped along by Stone and Thorn’s shoulders to his back.

“Vod,” Thire says and they’re off to an awful start. Fox chugs his drink and can’t taste the four shots of espresso under the fake chocolate. Story of his karking life. “It’s been some time and we were wondering if you had given any more consideration to our request. For a Padawan.”

Oh. _Oh_. Fox chuckles, relieved. He thought this was something _important_. He pats Thire’s bicep companionably. “No.”

“Is that no you haven’t thought about it or no -” Fox knocks past him, breezes through the gap. He’s already put the whole incident out of his mind by the time he’s elbowing open his office door. Requisitions first, he thinks, then the investigations into who is stealing the Mimban senator’s -

Huge blue eyes blink up sleepily from the chair Ponds had installed in his office and claimed it was for guests. Fox blinks back. He closes the door, silent.

Silence reigns in the Guard Front Office.

“In our defense,” Thire eventually tries. “We expected you to have a different answer.”

“Did you.”

“They’re borrowed,” Thorn hurries. “Just for the day.”

“Are they.” Fox pauses. “They.”

“I’m just going to go assign myself to mousedroid duty,” Stone says. Smart man, Stone. Not fast enough, but Fox can admire the attempt.

Fox snags his arm as he tries to hurry by, tucks an elbow into his and pulls their shoulders flush together. He smiles, pleasant. Stone looks as though he’s contemplating how fast he can chew his arm off.

“They,” Fox croons and smiles with just about every single one of his teeth. “After I think we all agreed that we just aren’t _ready_ for a Padawan.”

“Technically,” Stone says because he does so love his technicalities. Never works for him but Fox is _ever so amused_ when he tries. He tries. “They’re not actually Padawans?”

Fox lets his smile go feral.

* * *

“Porgpox,” Thire narrates and makes a good show of pretending to ignore Fox’s looming. “Torn through their cadet center and these little ones can’t get vaccinated yet. It’s all gloves on shift and they had concerns about keeping them separate.”

“Porgpox Commander,” Stone persists. He’s an optimistic little bastard; keeps discreetly trying to tug his arm from Fox’s grip. Haha no. Fox has Bral’s comm codes: they won’t leave one of theirs behind. Stone is his hostage to keep the rest of them present until he can gut them. “You remember Porgpox, don’t you?”

“Probably one of the most inconvenient things,” Fox agrees, “kind of like my office being packed with children.”

“There’s less than a dozen,” Thorn offers. He, wisely, steps to the other side of Thire and gets handed a portable Sullustan for his troubles. The bulb of kid sticks a finger in its mouth and blinks enormous eyes around at them.

“Natborns have it for _weeks_ , Commander!”

“ _A_ week,” Thire corrects, even thought it weakens their argument a tad. Stone glowers at him. He shrugs. Medical accuracy is just his thing.

A week is, admittedly, a disgustingly long time to deal with Porgpox. Fox doesn’t remember that time fondly. Still. An _hour_ is a disgustingly long time to be away from his desk.

“Ponds asked,” Thorn offers, so very casually. “Nicely.”

Well, isn’t Thire lucky today? He just found someone to take over all those traffic enforcement shifts Fox has been making him do: penance for the demise of Fox’s Florrum press and the now-hourly attempts to convince the barista lad that yes, _please_ , just caff, black.

Fox glares poison at Thorn. Thorn skitters behind a barrier of small, sleepy children. “And What.” Fox bites. “Did _Ponds_ Expect Us To Do With Them.”

Bral shares looks Fox does _not like at all_.

* * *

“Vod down, vod down,” Stone howls as Jek is toppled by a hollering mass. “Oh the _inbeingity_!”

“Save yourself!” Jek hollers back as multicolored handprints smear all over his face and chest. He throws one dramatic arm up, grasping vainly for sunlight. An enterprising little Mon Calamari tackles it forward and splotches of paint splatter all down his back too.

The horde smears Jek rainbow colored and then turn their weapons on Stone. He jogs for safety, but the squashy half-walls between him and the mob prove no deterrent.

Fox isn’t sure Nautolans are _supposed_ to bounce that high but the kid gamely boings off the ceiling unbothered. Stone goes down to a kid to the head, and the colorful mass swallows him.

“I would never have believed you were party to this madness,” he grumbles.

Blockade sniffs. “‘This madness’ was self-developing,” he grunts. “I _contained_ it.”

Fox huffs but doesn’t disagree.

Blockade and Hound have transformed this little warehouse into something a whole lot like what Fox remembers from some of his earliest cycles, if more colorful. It’s a training course to challenge any half-high cadet, with barricades and climbing walls and all liberally coated with squashy mats and tight-stretched tarps for bouncing. And paint, can’t forget the paint.

A Wookie more paint than fur clings immovably to Rhys’ back and is busy recreating a very accurate picture of a sunset down his shirt. It’s gonna be a real bastard to clean this up. It’ll be worse, to clean the kids up.

“Cake arrives in an hour,” Blockade narrates so smoothly Fox nearly misses it. It takes him a second, and a doubletake.

“ _Cake_?! What the _actual fucking kriff-_ ”

“And Commander Ponds will be here in approximately an hour and fifteen minutes.”

Fox pauses. Considers. “Cake,” he muses.

Blockade gives him the dirtiest side eye. Ah. Right. It isn’t just _Fox_ that’s been kept from his desk all day.

“Cake,” Blockade agrees viciously. “To celebrate their victory.”

Cruel. Blockade was always Fox’s favorite. “Should give em prizes too,” he decides. “Something noisy.”

“I’ve got goodie bags with akk whistles and glitter.”

“Good man. You’re promoted to favorite.”

“ _Weep, for have we all perished_ ,” bellows Stone.

Blockade snorts. “I have never been anything less than the favorite.”

Thorn snags a Nikto by the ankle and tosses it to boing happily on a bouncy tarp. The kid screeches something that is probably ‘again’ and the process continues. Behind him, the Sullustan from before carefully creeps up up with an armful of blue paint and a face of mischief.

Well deserved, in Fox’s mind. “And at this rate, you never will be any less than favorite.”

“Damn straight. Replacement caff machine is delivered in the morning.”

“Favorite.”


End file.
